black roses in her hair
by smartalker
Summary: For Keely. The thing about a message in a bottle is that you don’t have to expect a reply. — ErzaJeral


**Entitled**: Black Roses in Her Hair  
**Fandom**: Fairy Tail  
**Length**: 800 words  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own Fairy Tail and etc.  
**Summary**: The thing about a message in a bottle is that you don't have to expect a reply. — ErzaJeral  
**Notes**: Happy Birthday, Keely! Sorry I wasn't there for it. Also, total speculation on my part, post chapter 145.

* * *

She writes in black ink, the letters cramped and secret, crouched in the middle of the page. They assemble into pinched, guilty words, before she stuffs them away into an empty wine bottle, peering at the paper wrapped in green glass, before capping it, and sealing it with wax.

She writes, _Do you see in color? _and throws the bottle out as far as her arm will allow her, satisfied by the splash. She throws them too hard. The bottles crack on impact. Her messages sink and bleed.

Maybe they drown their way to the underworld. Maybe.

* * *

She can never wear white for very long. Something always ruins it—she'll bleed on it, or spill on it, scuff it, rip it, snag it, stain it.

And it's a shame, really, because she's always loved pretty white dresses. So she buys them anyway, and twirls a bit behind the curtain, but steps out in black and dumps the long white fabric at Lucy, leaving innocence to her. Some things just weren't meant to be.

She writes, _Why can't we wear white? _and has to close her eyes to launch this one, her face burning, though she isn't sure why. It's not as though he'll ever read it.

* * *

She is ready to ruin herself again, to face him. Maybe not—_ready_, exactly, but braced. Expectant.

He never plays by the rules, and she should have known better. He's like a coin spinning through the air, one side light and one side not, while she holds her breath and waits to see which side falls face-up. But she hadn't thought both sides could be wiped smooth.

This is too cruel.

"Can you tell me who Erza is?" he asks her, and all she sees is him breathing. Jeral. But he might as well not be. Because he was everything, he was her courage and her fear, her weakness and her strength, her dream and her nightmare. And now he doesn't remember her at all.

Her mouth is empty of any words. "Can't you remember anything else?" she says, like her throat is thick with cotton and everything comes out husky and warped. That hadn't been what she meant to say.

"Nirvana," he says, their profiles drawn in the radiant howls of avenging angels. The meeting points between life and death, good and evil. It seems fitting. There is a darkness calling her. She is transfixed by the light.

"It's you," he says, stepping towards her. She isn't sure which way to run. He keeps walking nearer. "You're Erza Scarlet. Who are you?"

"You saved my life," She said, "And then you killed me. But you saved it again. You're—why do you always—?" she breaks off, feeling the prick of metal, and twists impalement into a scrape, drawing her sword reflexively and kicking out at the snake-man, armor flowing over her skin.

When she blinks, he is dead, and Jeral is backing away with his head to the side, expression hidden from her. She can't tell if what she sees is a smirk or a smile, and struggles to her feet, always running. "Wait!" she yells, but then falters, as everything fades out into darkness.

* * *

Along the road, she spots something green glinting in the sand, and starts sprinting, her legs flashing with speed, hair whipped away from her face, lungs wet and rasping, her throat thick with water. She stumbles once, and reaches the bottle with sand crusting the backs of her knees, fingers seeking the bottle's scratched green neck. She digs at the seal with her fingers, and then rips the cork out with her teeth, smacking the open lip against her palm.

A cold stream of water shivers through her fingers, and then the paper. She wheedles it outwards, unfurling the damp paper, dry panes cracking salt.

The black ink had taken to the water, exploding into plumes of pink, orange and powder blue, strangely beautiful and difficult to understand. Half the words have slid right off the page.

It is her own writing then, her own message marred and repeated back at her. _Why wear white?_

She adds a little salt water to the ocean. It can't hurt.

It does anyway.


End file.
